Mere Imagination
by Scholar of Imagination
Summary: A young scientist meets Sherlock Holmes and is soon swept up into a crime, but will Sherlock lose a more important case in the process?
1. Chapter 1

England is a strange country. They drive on the right side of the road. They spell "plow" as "plough." No one says "cell phone" - it's a "mobile."  
England is a beautiful country. Rolling meadows, high white cliffs. History. Literature. Accents.  
It was with this mindset that I moved to London after receiving my college degree in biochemistry. Having spent a semester there on a study abroad program, I had fallen in love with the little of the country I had seen and decided to begin my own life there; it seemed as good a place as any. I had found a small research center in a hospital/college - excuse me, _university_ - where I could do what I loved, genetics. I had dabbled in some of the aspects in this wide field - forensics, archeology, medicine - but had yet to truly find my niche. Here, I could do them all. As I had little experience I was given a job as a lab assistant. I did whatever was asked of me, a little bit of everything. Every day was a new adventure, a new discovery. Some new mystery was always waiting to be solved, and I reveled in it.

* * *

I had read about the infamous London fog; pea soup was an accurate description. On this particular morning it hung low over the city, causing chaos. Taxis blasted their horns and people, many of them with scarves wrapped around their noses and mouths, did their best to avoid collision with other early morning commuters. I pulled my hat down further over my ears and shrank back into my coat. I had grown up in a medium-sized American suburb and still had not adjusted to the sights and sounds the large city. I hopped onto the metro (the tube, they call it) and grabbed on to one of the metal poles for dear life. While I loved this smooth, fast, futuristic method of travel, I hated being jostled and shoved every which way. There was an advantage, however. It kept my mind from wandering...  
It was with great relief that I finally reached my destination. I disembarked and made my way to the lab.

* * *

A rumble in my stomach told me it was lunch time. I sat up from my microscope and rubbed wearily at my eyes. I sighed, mentally chastising myself for the raccoon eyes I knew I had given myself from hours at this piece of equipment. I had been watching cells divide. For hours. One, then two, then four, then eight, then sixteen, then thirty-two...I found it mesmerizing. It had been a slow day, and as I had been given little to do, I had found an activity that would be out of everyone else's way.  
I stretched, listening to the crackle of my stiff spine, and suddenly noticed someone sitting across from me. A man wearing a rather bemused and condescending smile. He was strangely pale and thin, it was almost eriee. I couldn't tell if his eyes were blue, gray, or somewhere in-between. He would have looked almost dead, had it not been for his hair. It was dark and wavy, almost curly. Long, but not too long. It suited him, I supposed.  
I tried to regain what little dignity I had left, but he made me feel flustered all the same.  
"Yes?" I asked, reaching for the glasses I sometimes wore and ending up adjusting nothing but air.  
"Well," he replied, a twinkle in his eyes that I couldn't quite translate, "I just popped by to pick up a genetics sample that was supposed to be processed today, and was directed to you. If you're busy, I really could come back later." His voice practically dripped with that dry humor the Brits are so fond of.  
"No, it's fine." I chose to ignore his attempt at wit (It was better that way, I had found. They leave you alone sooner.), instantly recalling the only task I had been assigned this morning. I walked over to the counter and retrieved the tray of gel from the apparatus. I returned and held it out to him. He took it, and I expected him to leave. In short, he didn't.  
The arrogance emanating off him was starting to annoy me. "Is there something else you need?"  
"Not at the moment."  
"Well, then, I have plenty else I could be doing and really could be using this time..."  
"No, you don't."  
"What?"  
"You're bored. Good day." And with that, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

I tried to shake off the feeling he had given me, but it was impossible. I found myself no longer hungry, and ate mechanically. The food turned to ash in my mouth, like I was afraid. But I wasn't. What was wrong with me? It was as if there was a small thought wriggling around in my head, a memory I had almost forgotten.  
I finally couldn't stand it anymore. Leaving my poor peanut butter-and-jelly sandwhich behind, I went to look for him. I was almost surprised that I found him in the first lab I looked in. Planning to give him a taste of his own medicine, I leaned up against the door frame. It did not take him longer than two seconds, however, to notice me.  
"How did you find me?" His eyes flashed with something that looked like anger - and admiration?  
"Not that hard," I shrugged, "you took a gel tray, probably went somewhere with a UV light to look at it. Not that difficult a deduction."  
He blinked confusedly (Good, I thought. ), shrugged himself, and went back to his own task. I forged ahead.  
"How long were you watching me this morning?"  
"Not long."  
"That's not a good answer."  
"Long enough." I rolled my eyes, visibly, I hoped. He noticed.  
"It was only about ten or fifteen minutes," he said, trying to brush me away like an annoying bug. I wanted to sink into the floor. He had watched me for FIFTEEN MINUTES and I hadn't noticed him! Something like this hadn't happened since the sixth grade, when I missed my name in attendence because I was reading.  
I turned to go, just wanting to go back to my own lab to lick my wounds, but something held me back. I wanted to go and pound my head against the wall, shake the thought loose, but I knew that that would just make me look like more of an idiot. I squeezed my eyes shut, tight, and something began to surface.  
"You remind me of...someone. Someone I used to know or something I read about..." I turned back around, as if he would answer my question. But he was staring at me. Again. I looked back, locking my cold blue eyes in his. Everything was silent. Electric lights buzzed and complicated machines whirred. Time seemed to hold still. Finally, he spoke:  
"It is, I admit, mere imagination..." And with that, everything went black.

* * *

I couldn't have been out for more than ten seconds but it felt like much longer, dispite the fact that when I came to Mr. Sherlock Holmes had not moved an inch. I had fallen flat on my face, now had a killer headache, and he had not batted an eyelash. What an idiot.  
I went to push myself into a sitting position when a man, whom I hoped was the police, arrived at the door.  
"Sherlock, I heard a thud. Is everything okay?"  
"No," I mumbled from the floor before the wise-guy could get a word in edge-wise.  
"Sherlock, who is this and what did you do to her?" the man asked, sounding rather alarmed as he bent down to help me up.  
"Lab assistant, American, early twenties, bored, female..." Sherlock droned sardonically.  
"You mean you don't even know her name?"  
"I didn't assume that I would have to introduce her to the floor, and as she did so well for herself, there was no need."  
"Argh." By now I had gotten a better look at this man, who had pushed me into a chair and was rummaging around in a drawer for something. He was shorter than Sherlock Holmes, and more solid. His blond hair seemed a tad mussed, as if he constantly ran his fingers through it in frustration. Altogether, however, he seemed calm and collected, even in unusual situations such as this.  
He came back over to me with a small penlight and introduced himself, shinning the light in my eyes, "John Watson."  
"Bridgette," I replied, shrinking back a little from the light but keeping my eyes open after a no-nonsense look from the man in front of me. As he took my wrist (My pulse? I was obviously alive, thank you very much!), I asked Sherlock "Is he always like this?"  
"Usually. Army doctor, likes to fuss over people."  
"Shut up, Sherlock."  
"She asked!" Dr. Watson ignored this, and turned back to me.  
"Feel all right?"  
"My head's pretty sore," I replied, touching it gingerly.  
"From the sound of that crash, you're going to have a good-sized lump," he said, glaring at Sherlock, who chose to ignore him. "Headache?"  
"A little..."  
"That's to be expected. Just lay low for a few days in case you have a concussion. And go to a surgery if you feel any worse."  
"Right, thanks." (I was glad that I remembered that in Britain a surgery was a doctor's office; I did not need to make myself look like any more of a dimwit right now.)  
"Well, are you going to tell me how this happened?" Dr. Watson asked, rounding on Sherlock.  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"There's nothing to tell."  
"I go down to get a cup of coffee, hear a loud thump, come back, find a young girl practically passed out on the floor, and there's nothing to tell?"  
I cut in. "He came to my lab, creeped me out, I came to find out why he was creeping me out, he told me who he was, and I fainted." I had given up all hope of not being embarassed; there was no way I was getting of this one unscathed.  
"Technically, I didn't tell -"  
"Oh, close enough."  
"Whoa. Hold on. What?" Dr. Watson was really confused now; I almost felt sorry for the poor guy.  
"I asked who he was and -"  
"_It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how often is imagination the mother of truth?_" Sherlock pronounced the phase as if it was an official Papal dictum.  
"And what in blue blazes is that supposed to mean?" I sighed, wondering briefly how the both of them would react if I just walked away, and resigned myself to explaining the whole thing.  
"When I was younger, there was this book series about a detective named Sherlock Holmes. There might have been a TV series too, but, whatever it was, I was obssessed. Mr. Holmes came to see me today in the lab- well, not me; he needed a genetic sample - and he reminded me of someone or something but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I went to figure it out, he quotes _The Valley of Fear_, telling me that he really exists, I faint, you come in, he makes some snide remarks, we frustrate you even more, and here we are. Anything else, your honor?" I felt sort of bad about the sarcasm, but I had had just about enough of this whole thing.  
"Nope, I think I've got it - Frustrate me more?"  
"Isn't it obvious? Your hair. You run your hand through it and then try to smooth it back down, but it doesn't work too well. Next time, use a comb and some water."  
Sherlock smirked but Dr. Watson, running his fingers through his hair, practically groaned. "Not another one!"


	3. Chapter 3

It was a few days before I saw Sherlock Holmes again. He once again found me working in the lab, but this time I was processing a blood sample that a doctor from the hospital needed. He stood next to me, silently, watching me work. It was un-nerving; I always felt that I was going to make a mistake when others watched me, and I fared little better under his hypocritical gaze. I managed to finish what I was doing, pulled off my gloves, and looked up at him.  
"Well?" In response, he pulled out a long object wrapped in what looked like a fancy cloth napkin and held it out to me. Confused, I just stood there, holding it.  
"Aren't you going to open it?" So I did. It was a bone. A human-arm-looking bone.  
"Awfully old, isn't it? Don't you mostly deal with current stuff?"  
"That's the thing; we don't think it is."  
"You don't think it's what?"  
"Old." He swept magnificently around to the table where he had first met me, sat down, propped his feet up, and put his hands behind his head. I followed in his wake, still clutching the bone, and stood across from him. "Fellow down the street found it in his garbage pail, but swore that it hadn't been there the day before. He thought I'd be interested, so he brought it to me."  
"But why couldn't it be an old bone that someone found and just threw away?"  
"Oh, come now, why would you want to hide something centuries old? Why not donate it to a museum? A historian? A scientist? Sell it, even? Why hide something that didn't need to be hidden?"  
"But why," I pressed on, "go through all the trouble of making it look old and then hiding it? Why not just hide it to begin with?"  
"In case it was found."  
"Come on, that is so lame. Are you telling me that's the best the great Sherlock Holmes can come up with?"  
"Maybe he wanted it found." The fire in his eyes told me that his patience was wearing thin. "All I want you to do is find out how old it is."  
"Then what?"  
"That's all."  
"That's it? You mean you aren't even going to tell me how this thing ends?" But he would say nothing more, and, with that mysterious twinkle in his eyes, he left.  
The next day I was conveniently out sick. Sherlock Holmes would have to wait for this one.

* * *

This time it was I who went searching for Sherlock Holmes. I found him in his favorite lab, and was glad to see him sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on the surface in vexation. Dr. Watson was next to him, typing away at his laptop. I was glad; I wanted him to witness this.  
I opened the door as loudly as I could, my face in a position I hoped was expression-less. I walked briskly over to the two men, who had both looked up at the sound of the door.  
"Old," I proclaimed.  
"How old?" Sherlock asked, but I went on.  
"Do you know how difficult it is to get DNA out of an old bone, Mr. Holmes? Let me tell you that it is no walk in the park."  
"Where were you yesterday? Don't you know that an arrest hinges on this small, seemingly insignificant matter?" To my delight, he was getting angrier.  
"I didn't need to go any farther than trying to extract the DNA. The bone is old, not new. I don't know who in his right mind trusted you with it, but you lied to me."  
"I told you she wouldn't fall for it," Dr. Watson said, looking back at the computer screen.  
"Wouldn't fall for what?" Sherlock slumped back into his chair, an innocent yet smug expression on his face. When he didn't respond, it was Dr. Watson who stepped in.  
"Will you tell her, Sherlock, or shall I?" He was met with dead air, and took that as an invitation.  
"You see, you made quite an impression on Sherlock here the other day and -"  
"-and I wanted to see how you'd handle a real case," Sherlock cut in.  
"Don't be daft! You wanted to see if she'd see through that phony story you made up! A bone in a garbage can? That's ridiculus! I told you that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard but did you listen-"  
"It was NOT a phony story! There was a case like that that I had a few years ago, and while I admit that it was more like a skeleton in a large toxic waste plant, this one was way more believable! Why-"  
At this point, I helped myself to a chair. At the rate these two were going, I knew I could be here a while...

* * *

The story eventually came out. Sherlock had been, to use Dr. Watson's words, "impressed" with me and had decided to see how much I really could do. He made up that phony story about the bone (I still didn't know where he had gotten it) and had apparently been quite pleased when I didn't fall for it hook, line, and sinker. In my defense, I must say that it was quite obvious since there was no way (that I knew of, anyhow) to make a fresh bone look hundreds of years old. And someone just leaving a single bone on the top of a pile of garbage? Any self-respecting criminal would have at least buried it a few inches down!  
That night, I stormed around my flat (a much nicer word than apartment, I thought), crashing pots and pans, making as much noise as I possibly could. I was furious that he would do such as thing, although exactly what about it bothered me I couldn't quite figure out. Later that, night, however, in the dark, the time when I have always done my best thinking, I became rather happy that Sherlock Holmes thought me worthy of noticing. Thought me worthy of a test. And, pretty sure that I had passed, I fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

I woke up as quickly, as if my alarm had gone off. My heart was racing with excitement. I HAD to get to the lab! Looking over at the clock, I saw 2:34. Ugh.  
Double helixes and proteins had woven in and out of my dreams, and I had been awoken by a brilliant idea. It could wait, I decided, considering the lab didn't open for another three hours. I gropped for the pencil and paper I kept by my bed just for this purpose, and scribbled something I hoped would be disipherable in the morning. I placed it underneath my glasses and flopped back on the bed. Snuggling back under the covers, I drifted back to my workshop.

* * *

The next time I awoke it was 7:30. Shoot; I had overslept! No time to wait in line at the metro this morning; I'd have to walk. Or run.  
I shoved my glasses hastily onto my face, thew on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and ran a toothbrush through my mouth before grabbing my purse and bolting out of my flat.  
It was rush-hour for pedestrians, and I sincerely regretted not catching the metro as I impatiently tapped my foot while waiting for it to be safe to cross the street. Everyone tried to stay out of everyone else's personal space but failed miserably; I was constantly being jabbed in the side and having my toes stepped on. It wasn't until I had made it over the crosswalk, however, that I felt what seemed like a small pinch on my arm. I reached up absently to rub at it, still intent on making it to the lab in time, but as I did so it seemed as if all my thoughts just leaked out of my ears. There was suddenly nothing. What was wrong with me? I wondered in some deep recess of my mind. It was as if I couldn't keep anything inside my head for long enough to act upon it.  
I must have looked like an idiot, standing stock still in the middle of a busy London sidewalk, staring into space. It felt like I stood there for hours before something closed tightly around my wrist. Thoughts of resisting slipped away as quickly as I could think them up, and I allowed myself to be led to wherever I was going.  
Eventually, something seemed to slip in from the outside world. _Knock on the door, knock on the door, knock on the door_ the thought said, and I, having nothing better to be doing, obeyed, rapping three times upon the slab that had mysteriously appeared in front of me.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm not sure how to indent things, even though I've tried! If anyone has a suggestion, that would be most appreciated!**

Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were just about to begin a game of chess (John had refused Cluedo) when they heard a knock at the door.  
"Not a client," the latter said, clearly disappointed. Which meant the former had to answer it. Sighing, he rose from his armchair and went to investigate their early-morning caller.  
Sherlock heard the door open and his flatmate gasp in surprise.  
"Sherlock, get down here!" The urgency in his tone was enough to get the bored detective down the stairs, where he was met with a truly unexpected sight.  
Bridgette, the girl from the lab, was standing on the front stoop of 221B Baker Street. But not standing like a normal person; she was perfectly still. She wasn't blinking, and her gaze seemed strangely blank yet confused. If she hadn't been on her feet, and her shoulders had not been rising and falling with her breath, Sherlock would have thought that she was dead.  
By this time, Dr. Watson had pulled her into the flat and shut the door on the outside world. Afraid to do much else, he called her name and waved his hand in front of her face, trying to elicit a response from the young scientist. But there was nothing.  
"It's as if she's not here..." Sherlock murmured.  
The two men tried to coax her up the stairs, but were unsuccessful. Sherlock, impatient to work on this new mystery, finally swept his guest off her feet and into his arms. She did not protest, and he brought her up the stairs and placed her, surprisingly gently, onto the sofa.  
At this point, John's medical training took over once again. As he took her pulse (unexpectedly steady), Sherlock inquired after a blood sample.  
"She's obviously been drugged; if you got me some blood I could figure out what it is and if there's an antidote," Sherlock explained, as if to a small child, when his friend gave him a strange look. John sighed as he saw the wisdom in the (slightly grotesque) logic and went for his medical kit.  
Sherlock knelt down in front of the girl, trying to make sense of what was going on; it was strange for him to be unable to understand something that seemed so incredibly simple. He let a catalog of possible answers scroll through his fantastic brain as he stared into her eyes. They were a clear blue, almost grey in places. Almost like his own. And, like his, there was a spark of intelligence deep inside. He decided that he would very much like to deduce her when she regained coherence.  
Dr. Watson returned with his medical kit and began pulling out gloves, alcohol wipes, a vial, and a butterfly needle. Sherlock watched as he expertly tied a tourniquet around her upper arm and looked for a vein. Everything was going fine until he came at her with the sharp piece of metal.  
She was confused and now scared. The formally stoic human being now lashed out at the doctor like a wild animal. Something had registered deep within her mind and , instinctively, she had shoved his hand away with a scream, scooting to the corner of the sofa. There she sat, shaking, with silent tears leaking out of her eyes.  
John was unsure how to react. He had dealt with terrified young soldiers in the heat of battle, he had handled young children who wouldn't sit still, but never before had he been faced with a petrified, drugged, young woman in the living room of 221B, with whom he had no obvious means of communication.  
But where John failed, Sherlock usually picked up the slack. And what happened next was something John would remember for the rest of his life.  
Sherlock had watched the entire episode with an expression that was part amusement and, unusually, part concern. He spent a few moments with this calculating gaze on the girl in front of them before standing up and taking a seat on the unoccupied side of the couch. He reached out slowly, and wrapped his thin, sensitive fingers around Bridgette's clammy ones. She looked at him, her eyes shouting out all the emotions that the mysterious drug was preventing her from expressing. Breathing slowly, Sherlock nodded reassuringly, and pulled her towards him until she was sitting next to him. He wrapped one arm around the girl's quaking shoulders, whispering into her ear as he did so. John just barely made it out.  
"Trust me."  
With that, Bridgette visibly relaxed and allowed the detective to hold her arm out to the stunned doctor. He didn't know if he was more shocked by his flatmate's actions or how he had gotten through to a mind thought to be unreachable.  
Nevertheless, Dr. Watson was able to get some of Bridgette's blood without further incident.


	6. Chapter 6

Dr. Watson settled into his chair as Sherlock went off to his microscope. He looked at Bridgette: she was staring at him, but it was almost as if she was looking through him, seeing something far away.  
Neither he nor Sherlock had any idea what to do with her until they found the antidote, so they just left her on the couch where they, or Dr. Watson, at least, could keep an eye on her.  
John turned to his magazine as Bridgette pulled her feet up onto the sofa and sat back, as if she was waiting for Sherlock's deduction too. He had just become deeply engrossed in an article about how gastric bypass surgery was being used to treat Type 2 diabetes when he heard Sherlock call from the kitchen. "I've got it!"  
John peered over his flatmate's shoulder at the strange compound shown on the computer screen. "Sherlock, it says it's so rare it doesn't even have a name."  
"Well look at the list of symptoms! Inarticulate, confused, unable to comprehend anything except commands-"  
"-inability to make decisions, and the possibility of the re-awakening of old memories."  
Just then, Sherlock's phone made a little "ding" noise, which Sherlock ignored. "Aren't you going to answer that, Sherlock?"  
"Why should I?"  
"That's Lestrade's ringtone."  
"So?"  
"So it's a case!"  
"So what? I've got a case here; if he can't wait until I'm done with this one, then he's being an even poorer excuse for a DI than usual."  
For the second time in one day, John couldn't believe what he was seeing. Sherlock, refusing a case from Scotland Yard to work on a case that could barely be called one? But before he could ask, the younger man was putting on his coat and scarf.  
"Come along, John; I distinctly remember a small vial of the antidote in a forgotten cupboard at St. Bart's. Oh, and John? Try not to get in her way," Sherlock nodded at Bridgette, who was standing less than a foot away from him, "I've told her to stay near to me at all times, and I don't fancy being the one who gets in her way."


End file.
